teeth danced on rainbow moons

Good morning sweet Strawberry oatmeal. This is my galaxy.  Strawberries for planets. Fruit loops for moons. White sugar for hidden star clusters. And vanilla cream as dust.   

  

Monday's dawn begins.
A stretching week lies ahead. Full of good promise. And honey-eyed winks.
Before I can travel to the new week. I must wonder, and bask in the melting snow of the old week.
My week was drawn in pastels. The spring weather has blossomed, and the sweat of my brow is dripping by the heat.  When spring begins, so grows my inner teddy. I feel plush and stuffed with soft material.  Wanting to hug the unloved dirt, and sleep beside the bark of trees.  I sit pretty, belly full, and rich when I sit beneath a golden sun. 

I've spent my week playing vagabond.  My feet have not played traveler. But my brain has.  Through moon kissed hours, I've been wandering. Wandering through thoughts of now, then, and future bringings.  The sky is calling change from me. Not within me. But around me. There are friendflowers who do not blossom in my garden. There are weeds that must be plucked from my forest.  Cutting ties with friends is like watching water fall. It reserves your minutes. And makes you feel slow.   But after the water fall comes the prettiest flower. The lambs come out to play. And the fawns tickle the buds with their posy noses.  

For months, I have felt like the honey bee.  The honey bee stuck in a cocoon.  I trembled at the thought of stinging friend flowers who grew as weeds.            A honey bee will lose it's body after the sting, and this made me cowardly.  For hours, and days, and months, ~my heartbeat thumped faster, my baths drew longer, my poems were somber, my skies ill-lighted. All because,  I was perplexed by the people I was holding hands with. Not all. But few.  It's not that these people are guided by gloom, or built without hearts. Simply, we are not parallel.   We were born into different worlds.  All of this pondering, and mulling, made my bones ache. I'm not one for negative thinking. When I think sad thoughts,  I cannot visit my dreams. I cannot pluck petals from the sky.  Instead, I make stew. 

 I was rose blushed at dawn, with ears open, to a new melody.   It was at this moment, my clarity overcame me. And water buckets spilled from my eyes.   In the past week, I have discovered what true friendliness ought to be. I only want friend flower's who see the beauty in the pine, the scent in the candle, and the penmanship in the poem. The folksingers, the bakers, the painters, the wordsmiths, the poets, the tea-sipping, honey-dipping, souls. Those are the ones who I will keep. For those are the ones who know me best.

It's stunning how thoughts play vagabond. At once, I had goosebumps beside ill autumn shadows. Now, my thoughts are dressed in summery hours.   I blame the sun, and the folk song. If it weren't for poetry, the brightest star, or the string band, I'd never find myself complete.           Here is the melody that woke me.  "I come from a long line in history of dreamers, each one, a little more tired than the one before."



 I finish this post with a smile, a kiss, and two pictures. Picture one~ multigrain toast and homemade rasberry jam from a breakfast date. Picture two~ Newly bought cheetah printed boots. Meow.

  Always, thanks for listening x

what i wore

beige blouse- le chateau $20

beige shorts- suzy shier $13

fur shoes- atseoul.com sponsor

bow clip- claires $1
white fuzzy vest- china town $12

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